


For the Good

by astormwithskin



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astormwithskin/pseuds/astormwithskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alicia’s struggle to believe in a God that kills so randomly and hurts so deeply. Flashbacks to childhood and law school and coping with Peter’s affair. Spoilers for 5x15. </p>
<p>Biggest thank you in the world to Zelda. For the faith, inspiration and proof reading I needed to actually publish this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Good

Alicia Florrick doesn't believe in God.

Doesn't like the way the word drips acid down the back of her throat. Once, she compared religion to having a noose tightened around the neck and a chair pulled out from under. 

She's never believed in heaven or hell, but in shades of light and dark. 

Not every human is capable of good, but they are of evil. 

Maybe she did believe in something once. There was a time, she thinks, when her mother first disappeared for a weekend and left nothing in her absence but a stuttering and incoherent voicemail that echoed through an empty living room:

"It’s Veronica—

_Honey_ , I’ll be home late. Loose lips and all that. You know how I am when I get a—

The sound of kisses being puckered into the receiver had silenced her mother’s voice like a knife to the throat. Alicia can still remember holding her breath until she was dizzy, trigger finger pressed firmly on rewind as she attempted to decipher the words from the static. Can still picture her clasped hands and dust stained knees.

_Please, let her come home. Please. If not for me, for Owen._

See you soon. _Promise_."

Maybe that’s when she stopped believing in promises, too.

— Why she scrunched up her face whenever someone lent a pinky and swore the world. Why she rolled her eyes when boys told her they would call. Why she thinks she always knew, on some level, that marriage vows were made to be broken. Why she stayed with Peter in the end.

When he cheated, she didn’t get on her knees and pray — she took the _Florrick_ family bible and hurled it at him. Made sure the leather hit him hard enough to leave a mark and then laughed when it wasn’t in the shape of a cross. Told him if he had any respect for a higher power, he would’ve relied on that strength to keep it in his pants. He’d stared at her from across their “marriage” bed, wide-eyed and statute-still, and muttered something about taking it out on him and not on _God_.

She’d laughed at that, too.

Five years later and the universe had a twisted, _blade to the gut_ , sense of humor.

She thinks of Will and a conversation they’d had almost two decades ago, lips laced in burger sauce and veins flowing with cheap caffeine.

**—**

“God. Who needs God? only the wicked and the nostalgic throw that word around like it means anything.”

There had been a ghost of a smile at his words, the sort of look that she kept reserved for him — and only him — one that conveyed amusement and intrigue by his rapid train of thought. It was difficult to make a topic both happy and serious at the same time, but somehow Will Gardner had already mastered the technique perfectly at twenty-three.

"We’re supposed to be studying for finals, not having theological debates at two in the morning."

He’d laughed, knocked their knees together and let his hand slide across the table. 

"I know, I know. I just don’t understand the comfort in believing there’s something more — The right now should be enough. Life should be enough. People only look for answers in _clouds_ and _angels_ when they’re too chicken shit to really live. I think—”

A pause had lingered between them as his eyes met hers — deep set and incredibly focused — they kept her awake more than a cup of the strongest coffee ever could. She’d felt hot, too. Hands clammy. Mouth dry. She can remember her breathing being painfully slow as she’d watched him speak — felt every word in the pit of her stomach, like a fire burning to a crescendo.

"—I think people should die knowing they did the best with what they had. Yeah, sometimes that’s impossible and things happen, but people shouldn’t have to look to God for closure. Isn’t it enough to know that a person lived and that they were sometimes happy?"

She'd leaned forward then, in search of something to hold to keep her hands steady. She was always so together — Few people noticed the effort it took. Will did. He'd eyed her curiously when she settled on ripping open the wrapper of a straw and positioned it in the exact center of her soda. She'd taken a long, slow sip before answering him. 

"Sometimes people need to believe that there’s more than _this_.”

A casual glance had been spared around the diner, her eyes drifting between those that sat alone, hunched over pots of coffee, dark circles under their eyes and an uneasy shake in their movement to the lovers that were huddled in booths to retain body heat. With a tap against the hardback of one of her law books, she’d given him that smile again, the one that was just for him, and subconsciously placed her fingertips between his stretched out hand.

“I don’t believe in it. I think I did once—”

When her breath hitched and she paused, he didn’t need an explanation. He understood why her lip twisted at the mention of God. Knew it made her think of nights spent cradled against Owen while their mother was away, shoving her tongue down another foreign man’s throat. (Her mother explained once, that she liked to believe she inherited some of their culture through their kisses. Some of their pretty words. Said it made her feel _worldly_.)

He recognized her silences for what they were, not pretentious or stubborn, but moments intended for her to catch herself. To keep herself perfectly together.

“But I can understand why people need to believe in something. Some choose religion, others dedicate their lives to justice, to order, to family, to love…”

Her words had trailed off with her gaze, hazel eyes blazing like a forest fire — all passion and disaster. Will Gardner had a way of getting the words caught in her throat, like skin to a thorn. 

“All I know is this — when I die, I want it to mean something. I don’t want people to waste time looking to the sky or saying prayers in my name.”

He’d brushed the tips of his fingers gently against her hand, grinned a reassuring smile that could charm entire courtrooms and settled on resting his feet next to hers.

They had always been that way — Close enough to feel each other’s pulse but far enough for it to be platonic. Normal. Not something that was intentionally romantic, but something that just _was_.

“I want people to remember me for the good.”

Whether it was the depressing segue or the way his lip curved when he spoke the word “ _good_ ”, she can’t remember, but she knows that she burst into a fit of laughter and pulled his hand on top of hers.

“—If there _is_ any good.”

They’d laughed until there were elbows in pillows and ankles battering loudly against the metal of the booth in protest. His cheeks red with life and his hand still touching hers and—

**—**

The satin sheets feel like dirt beneath her back. Feel like bone, cold to the touch.

She stretches, her muscle memory fumbling around in the dark for his hand to hold.

It feels a lot like standing on the edge of a fifteen-storey building, all heels and slippery hands. He won’t be there to catch her.

She won’t ever see his face light up or wake up tangled in his arms or fight with him over something she should’ve apologized for. Even if she wasn’t sorry for trying to stand on her own two feet and take control of _her_ career.

If it meant getting him back, she’d spend the rest of her life apologizing.

_It’s too much_ , she realizes when the memory crawls down her throat, threatening to choke the life out of her if she doesn’t give into the tears — if she tries to keep herself together by relying on practiced silence.

So she focuses on happy thoughts. Thinks of the last time she saw him and it’s a comfort to know that the ice was thawing. That he didn’t hate her. He never did. He never—

Before she can catch herself, she is on her knees by the window, eyes to the sky and hands clasped tightly to her chest.

She isn’t praying. She isn’t.

The sky is pitch black, there aren’t any stars to keep her attention focused but her nails are clawing to keep her hands together and her lips are rested on her fingertips. She thinks of her memory and kisses the place he touched. Tries to find him between the cracks in her skin.

Thinks of him. Thinks of the first time she saw him, wet hair stuck to his forehead as he saluted her from across the pool. He’d cannonballed into the water — almost soaked her dress all the way through. Joked later that it had been intentional. _How else could he get her attention?_

Thinks of the nights she spent across from him in the Georgetown library, watching him become the kind of lawyer that could take her breath away at the drop of a gavel.

Thinks of the time he wrapped his arms around her waist and taught her how to hit a baseball, murmured something about it being in the hips.

Thinks of the shoes he was wearing the first time she saw him after all those years. The first time she had laughed herself to the point of tears since the scandal. 

Thinks of him in court, giving his best _Chicago defense_.

Thinks of elevator rides with awful music drowned out by frantic kisses.

Thinks of his eyes burning into every part she’d kept hidden from Peter.

Thinks of the New York skyline reflected in those eyes.

Thinks of all the good. Thinks of everything that he was. Everything that he meant. Everything she couldn’t figure out how to stretch into a sentence.

All she knows is this: There was more between them than just bad timing. So much more. 

“For the good.”

She repeats his words softly, her voice thick with the promise of tears. But she won’t cry. He always liked her best when she was strong and _together_.

“Will—”

She isn’t praying but speaking to his memory, because she’d rather believe that some part of him still exists than get caught up on the promise of clouds and angels.

“For the good. _I promise_.”

Alicia Florrick doesn’t believe in promises anymore, but she wants to. 

Wants to believe that there is more to the world than shades of light and dark.

And in the end, her oath to him is as good as holy.


End file.
